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by possumgurl
Summary: An anonymous tip off leads Alexander Mahone straight to Michael Scofield. MichaelMahone SLASH...AU after 2x07


A/N: Posted on livejournal.

Alexander Mahone was completely oblivious to anything and everything that was not Michael Scofield. The sharp edge of his mahogany desk dug into his palm, leaving a diagonal imprint to jut across the skin there. His tortoiseshell glasses were threatening to slip off the edge of his nose and onto the floor. The clock on the wall _tick-tock, tick-tocked_ its way around its circle of numbers. Mahone didn't know – nor did he care – that the clock's hands made a perfect right triangle with the small hand on the three and the long hand on the six. The fact that he had been sitting there at his desk since eleven o'clock at night – four and a half hours before – was not one he was remotely concerned with.

Michael Scofield's mug shot stared back at him. Alexander had removed it from the tack board displaying the other seven convicts and placed it in front of him on his desk. By now he had memorized the contours of Michael's face. Memorized the intensity reflected there. Memorized the way his hair turned down into a defined widow's peak. Memorized those eyes. Those piercing, all-consuming, blue-grey eyes that hid the ingenious mind behind. The mind was what he needed to know. He needed to bring Michael Scofield's mind into himself. To think like Michael Scofield. To eat, sleep and breathe like Michael Scofield. But most of all he needed to find Michael Scofield for himself. He needed to speak with the genius hidden beneath those all-knowing eyes. It wasn't about capturing a fugitive anymore. Mahone was honest with himself: he wasn't sure it had _ever_ been about putting Michael Scofield back in jail. His mind was too great to waste away in prison. Too great to confine, anyhow.

Mahone sat back in his chair without taking his eyes off Michael's. He began to absentmindedly twirl his pen in his fingers. Back and forth, back and forth. Flashes of Michael's tattoo raced through his mind in bursts. The pentagonal arches jutting into points just below his collarbone. Sword-wielding demons. Webs of lines and spaces and clues. All clues. Provided just for him by his quarry. Mahone closed his eyes for the first time in almost five hours, letting his head fall back to rest on the top of his chair's back. He imagined catching Michael Scofield. Alone. Pushing him up against the wall of some abandoned shack and stripping him of his shirt. He imagined running his fingers all over Michael. Following the map that had led him to this brilliant man in the first place. He replaced his deft fingers with his mouth, tracing the lines upward to bury his lips in the hollow above Michael's collarbone. Michael's hand moved up to clutch Alexander's hair and he shivered, moaning into Alexander's ear –

Mahone's eyes flew open and he swore quietly as the pen he had been twirling with increasing fervency flew out of his grasp and clattered to the floor. He picked it hastily up off the ground and sighed, leaning back in his chair once more. He ran his hand over his face and stifled a yawn, finally realizing how tired he really was. He glanced at the clock. Three forty. There was no point in going home. He didn't want to anyway. It was only bigger and emptier and lonelier. At least here he was surrounded by the case. Enough of it to encourage himself that he really _was_ close to finding Michael, even if he wasn't. Mahone let his eyes fall shut and sighed again, relaxing into his high-backed chair. An impossible man inhabited his mind, drifting through the dreamscape that overtook him…

---

Mahone jerked awake four hours later to the sound of his cell phone vibrating loudly on his desk. He snatched it up and flicked it open before he had fully recovered from his state of repose.

"Mahone," he answered groggily.

The voice on the other end was unfamiliar. Mahone sighed, trying to lift himself up into a world of comprehension.

"I can tell you where to find Michael Scofield."

Mahone sat up straight, his breath hitching in his chest and his throat going dry. He could feel his heart twanging in his ribcage. He tried to tell himself not to get his hopes up, that there would be no merit in the tip, but he couldn't help himself.

"What is it you want?" Mahone's voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat loudly.

"Are you assuming I want something in return for being a good Samaritan?"

Mahone blinked.

"Where is he?" His voice was desperate, harsh.

"There's an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Used to be a welding place."

"You saw him?" Mahone couldn't keep the jealously from creeping into his voice, not to mention his eagerness.

"I spotted him this morning as I was driving by. The guy looks downright dangerous. But you can tell he's trying to be discreet about it. He's got a blue cap on and a tan suit. I saw a bit of that tattoo. The guy had his sleeves rolled up in broad daylight. Not too bright, I'd say."

Mahone let an image of Michael slip into his head. He gripped the phone tighter, trying to channel his anger at this ignorant caller into the phone and out of his voice.

"Right," Mahone voiced sharply. "Thank you for the information. If there's anything at all I can do for-"

"That won't be necessary," the man cut him off. "Just get him for me, will you?"

Mahone's eyes fell out of focus and slipped closed. If this man was telling the truth Michael could be so near…

"I'll try my best."

Mahone snapped the phone closed and took a deep breath before shooting out of his chair and towards the door. His head was swimming. He was being stupid. Michael had been spotted five states away just two weeks before. There was no way. No way.

He yanked the door open and rushed into the main room, clumsily surpassing another agent. He didn't even look up to see who it was.

---

Mahone was in his cruiser and heading out of town no more than three minutes after he had dropped the phone into his pocket and raced out of the room. He could still feel his heart hammering a mark against his ribcage and he was having trouble swallowing. He tapped his fingers harshly on the steering wheel, willing the light to change, willing the traffic to disappear, willing the world to finally let him be _with_ Michael Scofield.

---

An age later, which his watch seemed to think was only a half-hour, Mahone pulled through a gate in the chain link fence surrounding the warehouse. The tires of his cruiser crunched in the gravel. He looked around the lot. The place was deserted all right. He parked quickly and jumped out, heading towards the looming entrance of the warehouse. He squinted, trying to make out any movement inside, even as his breathing quickened and his hands twitched nervously in his pockets. His head was swimming. _Let him be here, let him be here…_

The ground turned from gravelly to smooth as he entered the warehouse, holding his hand up to shield his eyes, letting them adjust to the darkness. A voice in the back of his mind reprimanded him for not bringing reinforcements in case Michael wasn't alone, but he shirked it off without a thought. A flash of movement caught his eye from the far right corner of the large room and he immediately headed toward it. Mahone's heart jumped into his throat as Michael Scofield came into view, leaning against the building's far wall.

"Michael." Mahone's voice was a rasp. He cleared his throat as a rosy flush crept up his neck.

Michael's cool, calculating eyes meet his own and Mahone let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"Agent Mahone."

Michael's voice woke something in the back of Mahone's mind and his eyes widened. How did he not realize it earlier?

"Why did you call me?" Mahone's voice was disbelieving. He looked down and noticed a bit of Michael's amazingly intricate tattoo sneaking from underneath his upturned cuff. He looked up once again to meet Michael's eyes. They sent his mind reeling. The corners of Michael's lips twitched up and he ran his hand over his short, silky hair in what looked like nervous agitation. His eyes met Mahone's again and there was something new shining in them.

"Lincoln's gone," he began matter-of-factly. "I'm alone."

Mahone nodded slowly, wondering why Michael was telling him this.

"You're a smart man Alexander. I've been picturing this moment for a long time."

Alexander's heart leaped. He took a few steps forward and his hand rose up of its own accord to brush Michael's cheek. Michael's eyes slipped closed and he sighed before bringing his hand up to hold Alexander's own in place.

"Lincoln said I was becoming more concerned with finding the enemy than escaping him." Michael's lips twitched again. "I think he had a point. Except for the enemy part."

Alexander smiled, happiness flooding through him. Before he knew it, his lips were on Michael's, probing softly. He felt Michael shiver and sigh against his mouth, relaxing into him. Alexander trailed his lips along Michael's jaw, and down his pale column of a neck, reveling in the small moans that issued from Michael's lips whenever Alexander pressed his warm, wet tongue against his skin.

Alexander groaned and pushed Michael up against the wall as the younger man clutched at his suit jacket with wordless need. He traced the very beginnings of Michael's tattoo with his lips before lifting his head to kiss Michael tenderly.

Alexander broke the kiss and let his forehead rest against Michael's. Their breaths came out in soft, heated pants, rushing like comforting fire across skin and lips. Alexander buried his face in the crook of Michael's neck, kissing it lovingly before letting his eyes slip closed as he pulled Michael more tightly against him.

He had finally captured his fox, and he wasn't ever going to let him go.

---

Alexander drove back to the office in a dazed, euphoric state. A gigantic bubble of happiness was growing inside his chest as he waited at yet another red light, hardly even noticing the delay it caused and especially not caring. Michael would be waiting for him when he returned home that night. When he returned to a home that now seemed as if it had never been lonely or empty. First though, he would go back to the office and inform the team that _Yes, Michael had been spotted in Mexico City. No, he, Alexander, would not be coming along as Burrows was thought to be in the area._ It would be sufficient time for them to get away. Alexander was thinking Peru, or maybe Brazil. It didn't really matter much, as long as Michael was there with him.

Alexander made his way into his office after hoodwinking the team, shut the door behind him and headed over to the chair where he had slept not but seven hours ago before being awakened by Michael's call. He sat down and smiled, reaching his hand into his pocket for the cell phone. He rather felt like hearing Michael's voice one more time before returning home to him. Alexander's hand brushed his phone, but before he was able to grasp it something else grazed his fingers. Curious, Alexander pulled it carefully from his jacket pocket. It was one of Michael's white paper cranes.

Alexander ran his fingers carefully over the bird's precise folds. Gently, he eased the wings down so that it looked as if his crane were soaring. Etched on the left wing in fire-engine red pencil was a perfect, tiny heart encompassing the letters A & M.

---

Alexander held Michael against his chest, resting his head in the indentation where Michael's neck met his shoulder. Michael talked while Alexander listened, tracing the mind-blowing tattoo that had been the first of many things that had caused him to fall in love with Michael Scofield. Michael talked about his childhood, the conspiracy, the plan, being in prison, even Doctor Tancredi. Alexander listened quietly, though there was so much he wanted to ask, even three weeks after first meeting Michael. He knew Michael had been alone for a long time without any way to release the pressure building on his overloaded conscience. It would take time, Alexander knew, for Michael to adjust and become comfortable with his new life. After all, it was new for Alexander too.

Michael finished talking for the night and they lay in silence for a few minutes, with Alexander running his fingers along the web of blue lines scoping Michael's torso and arms. He paused at a puzzling jumble of letters that he didn't remember ever seeing before:

AAMFBI

"What's this?"

Michael smiled and traced the inside of Alexander's elbow, causing a warm shiver to course through Alexander's body.

"Agent Alexander Mahone, FBI." Alexander could hear the smile in Michael's voice. He looked up to meet his eyes, which seemed to be smiling of their own accord.

"What?" Alexander was confused. "But you didn't know me then."

Michael smiled and Alexander's mind melted into a dazed puddle. After a long, comforting silence, Michael spoke.

"You didn't find all of my research on that hard drive you fished out of the lake. From what I read while devising the plan, you were the man for the job. Smart, clever, devilishly good-looking…" Michael trailed off as a soft blush crept into his cheeks. "I didn't actually need to have this as a reminder of who they were most likely to send after us when we escaped…" he traced the letters on his hipbone with an index finger. "But I liked the way it looked."

His eyes wandered up to meet Alexander's and he felt love and gratitude and safety rush through him all at once. Alexander cupped his hand to Michael's cheek and placed a kiss to his chin, then pulled him close and let his head rest on his tattooed shoulder. He was thousands of miles away from Illinois. In a new country. On a new continent. He hardly knew anybody, nor did he speak the native language, but he was now happier than he had ever been in his lifetime. He was with Michael, and he was home, and that was all that mattered.


End file.
